an abandoned ranch house. They carried Thurston inside and carefully placed him on his cot. He was badly bruised on the side of his body and had cracked two ribs. Grace bandaged him tightly with strips torn from a sheet. “He seemed so helpless,” Grace remembered, “like a small boy whose world had been smashed to pieces.” He could not raise his arms; he was unable to perform the card act or even rehearse his moves.
She sat by his side, nursing him back to health, offering bits of available food, “motherly tenderness, firmness, and a great deal of secret prayer.” Thurston’s own prayers had been confined to conning religious men. When he was broken, helpless, and frustrated, he couldn’t imagine praying for help.
The spooky, empty ranch house in the hidden valley seemed analogous to their situation. They had reached the bottom, quite literally, and were now at the end of their money, at the end of their luck, in an abandoned spot far from the notice of anyone else. As Grace explored the house, it seemed haunted by some sudden tragedy—the rooms were still filled with clothing, furniture, and remnants of food, and in the farmyard she found the pitiful skeletons of cows, some with the skeletons of their unborn calves. On the kitchen door was pinned a note. “Gone with John. Goodbye. Ruth.” The note chilled Grace. She considered how lucky a wife would have been to have such a home, and why she might have left it. In many ways, the house represented her dream of security.
AS CLARE AND MABEL Searched for food, Grace sat by Howard’s side for days. His nerves were soothed, and his ego satisfied, by detailing his life story to his wife. She dutifully filled the pages of her diary. He spoke honestly about his days of crime as the Nim Kid, his arrest in New York, and his time at Moody’s School and Burnham Farm, before he rediscovered Alexander Herrmann’s wonderful show. Thurston’s long monologue seemed confessional and redemptive. “Grace, I guess sometimes I haven’t been really kind or honest with you, but you’ve stuck all the way,” he admitted. “I truly love you.” She wrote those words, too, as it had seemed to come from such a desperate, vulnerable place in his heart. He promised to build her a real home when he found success in his career.
After five days, the group decided that they needed to leave and try to find a doctor. Howard was barely strong enough to consider the journey. Using wheel chocks and straining against leather straps, they began the slow, laborious climb out of the canyon. Thurston was confined to kneeling inside the wagon, holding on to the curved stays over his head and silently wincing with pain. “He would stare with disgusted resignation,” Grace recalled. “I knew he considered this a low point in his life.”
When they reached a town, they found a local doctor who examined Howard and applied new bandages, advising him to rest for several days. Clare went off to arrange a performance in town; a local rodeo guaranteed a crowd of people. Thurston couldn’t present his act—his arms were still too sore. But he dressed and agreed to “run-’em-in-and-out” for the three shows, energetically gathering a crowd, promising marvels inside, and then shooing the audience so that the next group could be accommodated.
His sideshow duties rejuvenated him. The next morning he resumed rehearsals of his card act. He positioned his mirror low on the side of the wagon so he wouldn’t have to lift his arms. Then he lit a cigar, one of the strong dark cheroots that he preferred, clenching it between his teeth and puffing like an engine. He methodically repeated his sequence of moves—cards appearing, and then disappearing—for hour after hour, cigar after cigar. Grace was delighted to see his determination.
Thurston returned to the act in Diamondville, Wyoming, a brand-new mining town that smelled of lumber and sparkled with silver nail heads against sheets of black
She sat by his side, nursing him back to health, offering bits of available food, “motherly tenderness, firmness, and a great deal of secret prayer.” Thurston’s own prayers had been confined to conning religious men. When he was broken, helpless, and frustrated, he couldn’t imagine praying for help.
The spooky, empty ranch house in the hidden valley seemed analogous to their situation. They had reached the bottom, quite literally, and were now at the end of their money, at the end of their luck, in an abandoned spot far from the notice of anyone else. As Grace explored the house, it seemed haunted by some sudden tragedy—the rooms were still filled with clothing, furniture, and remnants of food, and in the farmyard she found the pitiful skeletons of cows, some with the skeletons of their unborn calves. On the kitchen door was pinned a note. “Gone with John. Goodbye. Ruth.” The note chilled Grace. She considered how lucky a wife would have been to have such a home, and why she might have left it. In many ways, the house represented her dream of security.
AS CLARE AND MABEL Searched for food, Grace sat by Howard’s side for days. His nerves were soothed, and his ego satisfied, by detailing his life story to his wife. She dutifully filled the pages of her diary. He spoke honestly about his days of crime as the Nim Kid, his arrest in New York, and his time at Moody’s School and Burnham Farm, before he rediscovered Alexander Herrmann’s wonderful show. Thurston’s long monologue seemed confessional and redemptive. “Grace, I guess sometimes I haven’t been really kind or honest with you, but you’ve stuck all the way,” he admitted. “I truly love you.” She wrote those words, too, as it had seemed to come from such a desperate, vulnerable place in his heart. He promised to build her a real home when he found success in his career.
After five days, the group decided that they needed to leave and try to find a doctor. Howard was barely strong enough to consider the journey. Using wheel chocks and straining against leather straps, they began the slow, laborious climb out of the canyon. Thurston was confined to kneeling inside the wagon, holding on to the curved stays over his head and silently wincing with pain. “He would stare with disgusted resignation,” Grace recalled. “I knew he considered this a low point in his life.”
When they reached a town, they found a local doctor who examined Howard and applied new bandages, advising him to rest for several days. Clare went off to arrange a performance in town; a local rodeo guaranteed a crowd of people. Thurston couldn’t present his act—his arms were still too sore. But he dressed and agreed to “run-’em-in-and-out” for the three shows, energetically gathering a crowd, promising marvels inside, and then shooing the audience so that the next group could be accommodated.
His sideshow duties rejuvenated him. The next morning he resumed rehearsals of his card act. He positioned his mirror low on the side of the wagon so he wouldn’t have to lift his arms. Then he lit a cigar, one of the strong dark cheroots that he preferred, clenching it between his teeth and puffing like an engine. He methodically repeated his sequence of moves—cards appearing, and then disappearing—for hour after hour, cigar after cigar. Grace was delighted to see his determination.
Thurston returned to the act in Diamondville, Wyoming, a brand-new mining town that smelled of lumber and sparkled with silver nail heads against sheets of black
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